6 days

Seattle's Angels is a group that promotes good stories with low views. You can find us here.

“I don’t get paid enough for this.”

“Last I heard, you don’t get paid at all.”

“My point exactly.”

Cynewulf huffed and reached a little higher. Her high heels perched precariously on Intern’s shoulders, the Seattle’s Angle strained to unscrew a bolt from a metal panel. Intern clenched his teeth, threatening to wear down his molars. A small silver screw dropped past his face.

“Got one. Three to go.”

Intern bit back a curse. “Speaking of things that come in fours, did you get your reviews in yet?”

“Ugh, not now. I need to concentrate.” Another bolt came loose and fell.

“Why didn’t you just get a ladder? Why use me?”

Even though he couldn’t see it, Intern could feel the smirk as Cynewulf said, “As if you don’t already know.” A third screw came tumbling down.

5 weeks

Seattle's Angels is a group that promotes good stories with low views. You can find us here.

Heartshine stared at the doorknob that sat on the door labelled ‘custodian’. Cyne had asked for her help in decorating the facility for Hearth’s Warming, and, in her enthusiasm to pitch in, Heartshine had forgotten one minor detail about the facility that occasionally made it difficult to get around the vast complex.

7 weeks

Seattle's Angels is a group that promotes good stories with low views. You can find us here.

Matthew would have jumped at his door slamming open, but big bangs were practically an hourly occurrence at the SA compound. He looked up to find PaulAsaran in his door. The man’s eye was twitching and his sweating was not what someone might call pleasant. He’d only ever seen Paul like this when they were late, which they clearly were not.

Matthew ventured to ask, “Is there a problem?”

“I’m reading a bunch of big stories all at once.” Paul’s twitching was starting to alternate from eye to eye. “I haven’t written a review in over a week. Please tell me the next SA blog has an opening.”

Matthew smiled in relief and raised a collection of papers. “Why, yes! I have the stories right—” Paul snatched the papers from his hand, sat down on the floor, and began pouring over the material. Literally. “—here?”

10 weeks

Seattle's Angels is a group that promotes good stories with low views. You can find us here.

PaulAsaran sat in his office, Intern seated across from him. A stack of completed review papers lay between them on Paul’s desk. The two stared at the pile as though expecting it to get up and walk on its own at any moment.

Given the things the two had already experienced working for the Angels, that possibility wasn’t being ruled out.

“So… we going to just sit here and wait until it’s time to hand these in?”

Paul flicked his gaze briefly from the reviews to Intern, then right back again. “If that’s what it takes.”

Groaning and pinching his nose, Intern said, “You know, we could be doing anything else. Hang gliding, playing games, getting outside, explore the terminal. Not all review posts are eventful.”

11 weeks

Seattle's Angels is a group that promotes good stories with low views. You can find us here.

Cyne swallowed nervously as the nurse talked on.

She hated needles, but it was just one of the many hoops one jumped through in staying healthy. Besides, the place felt so calm, and finding a clinic in the non-euclidian sacred geometry of the vast SA compound had been so difficult and taken so long--

Wait.

How had she found this place? Where was this? When did she arrive?

Before any questions or further insight into the baffling nature of the endless labyrinths the Seattle’s Angel’s inhabit could be answered, Chris burst through the wall.

18 weeks

Seattle's Angels is a group that promotes good stories with low views. You can find us here.

Matthew poked his head into Cynewulf’s room. “Hey, you guys done yet? You and Corejo are late.”

“Yeah, we know,” Cynewulf said over her shoulder. She and Corejo sat hunched over some metal contraption beside Cyne’s couch. Whatever it was, there was a “DANGER: FLAMMABLE” sign on it, and a pair of tubes ran to what looked like giant vacuum cleaners on their backs.

“Wwwwhat are you guys doing?” Matt took a tentative step back.

Cynewulf and Corejo gave him big grins and snapped down welding visors in unison.

21 weeks

Seattle's Angels is a group that promotes good stories with low views. You can find us here.

Ebon Quill, braving the outside of his normal atmospheric room, walked with a purpose through the compound halls, a manilla folder tucked under one arm. Deciding to write reviews early had been a brilliant idea; not only did he save time to get back to proper writing but it also cut down on how much time he had to deal with the other Angels. Now, all he had to do was find Intern, hand in his work, then retreat back to his wonderfully gloomy abode.

His master plan neared fruition as he turned a corner and found his target. Intern stood in the middle of the hall, both arms raised up towards the ceiling. Ebon Quill strode up to him, eyeing his peculiar stance. “I know I’m going to regret asking this, but what are you doing?”

“Waiting to ascend,” Intern answered, his gaze locked on the ceiling above.

Seattle's Angels is a group that promotes good stories with low views. You can find us here.

The Endless Labyrinths of the SA Compound are host to a lot of strange things. Monsters, ghosts, office cubicles that go on for a mile, strip malls. And of course, the omnipresent Reviews, which must be places in the Questing Box which appears randomly to haunt you like that skull from Diaries of Spaceport Janitor. It also sometimes goes NYEH in your face like that skull.

NYEH said the Box.

“Um.” Heartshine nervously fussed with her mane. “Um, uh. Shouldn’t we, ah, do the thing? You know? The reviewing? The thing with the words?”

Inside of the changing booth, Cynewulf was incredibly busy. A skirt went flying like a beleagured parachute over the top of the door and fell like an awkwardly shaped leaf down in front of poor Heartshine.

“BUSY!” Cynewulf yelled, not really needing to yell but deciding to.

It wasn’t every day that you found a massive strip mall in the unknowable mazes full of clothes brand new and well fitting. She intended to take advantage of this. Also, reviews required Effort, and she had a serious allergic reaction to Effort.

NYEH.

“It gets mad when you say that,” Heartshine whined.

“It can eat it’s own butt! It’s not the boss of me! Can’t make me what to do!”

N Y E H.

“It’s like, hungry. Please? We can go right back to--”

“CANT MAKE ME WHAT TO DO. Also, we always get teleported afterwards. Gimme just… argh, can you help me with this zipper?”

“Okay,” Heartshine said, and sighed. She opened the door and assisted.

But as she zipped up Cynewulf’s dress, the Box made its move. There, on the little bench, was a stack of reviews waiting to be devoured. It’s purpose, set in place by strange and laughing Gods shaped like what Ferrets would be like if they were from Seattle, could not be circumvented. It pounced and the reviews were swiftly devoured as the two reviewers fled the changing stall.

A young thestral stallion, an older zebra mare, and a night of hedonistic enjoyment among the sleeping dead. But when one of those long departed proves to be very much awake, things get more exciting than either had expected.

]Ever been to an old cemetary, like a real old one? Best in North America are all in New Orleans, fo my money. Walking by the vast, ostentatious mausoleums of the restful (restless?) dead fills one with the haunted spirit of the city at the edge of the world as it were. I couldn’t help but think about New Orleans reading this story.

The plot is simple, and the action is reminiscent of a thousand ghost stories. The interesting twist here is the Zebra character and her read on things. There’s also something to be said for the fittingness of two of society’s marginalized finding peace of a sort (and also danger) in the marginal zones of the society they inhabit. The wild woods, the cemeteries, the catacombs, the badlands have always been places of meeting and business for those not in society’s main stream. SPark does a wonderful job of establishing two very different moods and then blending them--both the SoL mundanity and cuteness of a picnic date and the whispering threat of the restless dead. All in all, a wonderful bit of fiction.

Ooo! I love ghost stories! Reminds me of silly things that my friends and I used to do in college when we were bored and trying to find all the supposedly haunted spots on campus. Or wandering through a graveyard near (appropriately named) Salem, Michigan at midnight on Halloween sharing spooky stories.

Honestly, I think what I liked most about this story was the series of interesting juxtapositions of the two characters, the picnic in the graveyard, and the fact that not all is as it appears on the surface. This story likes to place the Slice of Life feel of a date between two creatures trying to get to know each other with the danger sensed by the zebra character. Her perspective on things is refreshing, as is the utterly bottomless well of energy that we get from her thestral date. It’s a really cute, but exciting story!

Super Trampoline is a shitposter. It’s what he does. It’s in his soul. He’s also an artist. These don’t neccessarily work well together.

But sometimes, the artist wrestles the shitposter and they either have synthesis or the artist wins. This is a time the artist wins. “Anytime” is the second of a mournful little duology. Both are short character sketches of ponies deep in the throes of their own established sorrows.

This story and its partner are a good example of Tramp’s penchant for channeling his own struggles with general despair. It is not necessary for an artist to Suffer Greatly to Create Greatly, but occasionally it helps. The feeling of others all around you seeing your disease, your illness, your mood… it can be stifling. Like shackles loose around the legs, you can move but its always there jangling. That’s the feeling here.

However unschooled Tramp can be sometimes, he’s sometimes got that strange spark of genuine genius. This story feels like finding some really great folk artist. You can see how a bit of training would improve this or that, but you also… don’t want that to happen, because part of what makes it a great experience is the roughness, the honesty of it.

To be honest, normally I’m not fond of second person stories. But I’m going to make an exception for this one.

Super Trampoline sets the tone of recovery in the light of tragedy with this story, and gives us an interesting take on the long term costs of war on those left behind. Sort of. I think the reason this hit so close to home for me is that I’ve watched people struggle with the issues that the MC (you) deals with, and it’s all set to this persistent backdrop of the idea that things are becoming bright and beautiful again at home, yet… you feel mute. You feel numb. That there’s a disconnect there, and that life is passing you by.

For second person stories to work, it has to draw you, the reader in. And this story does. You’re left wondering why something that should make a person happy doesn’t. At the end, you realise why, and it left me feeling just a bit muted and numb as well.

There's a certain word for love built for somepony in secrecy; it's called naivety. Once this point is reached, lessons are learned the hard way and sorrow flows like a river. Rainbow, like always, is the hardest to fall.

You know what sucks? Being rejected romantically. Know what also sucks? Most stories about that experience.

It’s hard to capture it because its very raw, but also because we often lose our cleverness when confronted by something so deeply cutting to our Ego. Try being witty when someone is pointing out that you’re the size of Mac truck, and you’ll see what I mean. (For the record, saying you’ll flatten them like one is not the best come back! But it can be serviceable if you can, in fact, do so.)

But it’s a part of the Human Experience, and as such it deserves to be explored. What I like about this particular exploration is that it neatly sidesteps some of the usual pitfalls and delivers an honest, if by neccessity somewhat truncated, account of what romantic rejection is like. There’s no “nice guys finish last” whinging or insistence that the Beloved is in fact somehow Bad or Wronging You in their refusal to accept and return your feelings. There’s injury, but there’s none of the assinine behavior far too many of us have. Rainbow is processing and readjusting her image of herself, of her life, and her prospects. Her answer is incomplete, but its perhaps a beginning. Worth the read if you want Sads.

Okay, so hear me out on this one: it’s really good. Sorren’s attention to details in how Rainbow Dash might process her own feelings is astounding, and it’s a lot of fun reading through the innocent, childish metaphors Rainbow uses to describe what she’s going through. And it could just be me enjoying watching a rather sensitive side of Rainbow deal with rejection. Which is a feeling that is extremely relatable for a lot of people.

Sorren does a lovely job of following Rainbow through the ups and downs and loop-de-loops of emotions that come from trying your best, only to be told ‘no’ by someone you care about. THere’s never an easy way to process that sort of thing, but everything that Rainbow goes through feels a lot more genuine than other pieces I’ve read with similar themes.

I think the other part I love about this story is the message at the end. I’ll not spoil it, but it’s worth getting there.

I think this one does a decent job of it. I’ve always felt that a good soft, character study/study in mood should really embody the spirit of its subject. If you are talking summer you should feel the sun on your back and hear the cries of kids free from the school day. If we’re on the edge of the world under ten thousand burning stars, then I better feel the constant singing awe.

So I’m glad to see some lyricism here, as we are talking about music and one mare’s relationship to it. That’s all you need for a story, imo, and Psuedo does a good job here. Props.

Psuedo_Nym paints a beautiful picture of a mare giving an interview to a crowd about why she loves music, and the reasons why she sings, even though she feels she isn’t very good at it. What impressed me about this story was how delicately the author manages to handle the topic. There are many moments where you can almost forget who the speaker is (which is tragically spoiled by the tags) in lieu of just feeling like you are listening to someone tell their story.

There’s also a dreamy, lyrical feel to the prose of this story that really helps set the tone that the old mare in the story is in fact, old. Like she’s been around long enough that memories are a little hazy, but the songs themselves haven’t changed in years. Or centuries. Or millenia. If you love music, and listening to a unique take on Celestia and Luna’s relationship, this one is well worth the read.

“I don’t think I like the box,” Heartshine said, glaring at the box. It was making less Nyeh sounds now that the reviews were done, but it had said things while the reviews were happening. Mean, cruel, and personally concerning things.

“You’re not supposed to like the box. The box is evil. The box is full of lies. And the last time, it didn’t even tell me where the cake was!” Cynewulf replied, delicately biting into a delicious piece of strawberry topped cake.

“Did it really have to say that this dress makes my flanks look fat?”

Cynewulf shrugged.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Heart. The Agency doesn’t like to discuss the hows and whys and whats and the hecks of HQ. Do that enough, and you end up like Intern.”

Heartshine frowned. She was pretty sure she didn’t want an office that was full of mops and brooms. Plus she was still puzzled about why the human word for Intern’s office was the pony word for “janitorial.”

“I guess you’re right. And… yeah, we probably should take advantage of things here when we can find them!” she replied, biting into a strawberry and cream cheese crêpe. “Ooo! This is yummy.”

“Yeah, enjoy it while it lasts, kid,” Cynewulf said with a whistful sigh. “You never know when you’re going to have to be writing reviews while running from cosmic horrors or unspeakable things that get you covered in glitter.”